


Machine Men

by phantasma



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7523965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantasma/pseuds/phantasma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the hands of the engineer and the engineered / he’s a dying machine / 2011</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Milch und Blut

Mornings are for banter tossed over chipped cups of bitter coffee, precious stillness before the midday bustle of academia. The world outside their dirty windows isn't beautiful, but they have made a home for themselves in it— and Alfons isn't beautiful either, but a fullmetal heart has grown to love the glint that he gets in his eyes when he drinks in equations or the sight of Edward's smile. The sky is pale and the streets are dusty, so Edward turns his gaze to Alfons' eyes instead, meticulously maps their constellations, forms asterisms, charts stars.

Gloved hands run circles across Alfons' back; his own hands shake as they push back golden hair. Edward can see ink stains in periphery as Alfons' thumbs come to rest at his temples. Foreheads touch and the transfer of heat sends hearts pounding in synchronous thuds. Edward leans to nudge their lips together, feels Alfons start and shiver and sigh. The sound of a far off clock fades into the buzz of ambient static and seconds slow with it. Edward stops counting, wills time to stay still— but the fire in his chest settles as they part — as they must — and Alfons sits back against the arm of the couch, and Edward smiles softly at the flush across his cheeks.

In the evenings after late work with the club they wind their way through crooked streets, stumbling over loose cobblestones and searching for each other's hands. _The hands of the engineer and the engineered_ , something murmurs in the back of Edward's thoughts, but he can still sense Alfons with one of his hands, and for him that is enough. Edward cannot quantify it, but something in Alfons stirs him, something deeper than his cornsilk hair, quiet laugh, or fair skin&mdash skin like _Milch und Blut_ they say here, milk and blood.


	2. Maschinenmensch

He should know the building well enough by now to navigate it by strands of moonlight, but it’s still a challenge. A hand along the wall – window to window, patch of light to patch of light –  keeps him steady, and maybe he doesn’t want to admit that the darkness isn’t all that it’s helping him withstand. He’s breathing but his chest is tight; he doesn’t want to think about the blood flecks on his sleeve—he can almost still taste it. Remarkable: he’d thought it was constant. Now it feels intensified.

It takes time and deliberate concentration (because it’s dark, because tripping and damaging something would do no one good, because of a series of logical, sensible reasons, not because he doesn’t want to think about—) to make it to the workshop. His footsteps loosen dust from the floor and, when the lights flicker on, he watches it swirl at ankle-level clouds and holds his breath. It’s dim and the stains on his hands look like rust. It is rust, practically— he’s a dying machine.

It’s the middle of the night, Alfons, he tells himself, and you’re standing in a factory.

It’s comical, almost, except that it hurts— tragic, almost, but it’s ridiculous. Here he is alone with blood still on his tongue and the sound of Edward’s back hitting the stairs echoing over and over and over. Phantom sounds. It’ll bruise, Alfons is sure. Something about that makes him feel like all of the air’s been sucked out— out of lungs, out of the room. Guilt crashes in almost dizzying waves— he was selfish, he wasn’t thinking, he didn’t mean it—

But that can’t change anything.

Alfons gives the rocket, a behemoth now that it’s nearing completion, a long, sweeping stare. Is it a machine of destruction? Far from it. It’s science. It’s exploration. It’s opportunity, chance—but whose? Edward threatened invasion into his own world by way of this machine, but how can he know, anyway? What has he seen?

You wouldn’t know, Alfons. You didn’t let him finish.

It feels too warm to be wearing a coat, too cold to go without it. Alfons shivers— no, trembles. It’s fever and he knows it and he doesn’t want to think about it. Not even now. How much longer can he juggle so many unknowns?


End file.
